CHAPTER XIX. THE PLAN
When one looks back upon the story of his life, he is sure to be struckby the reflection, that its uneventful periods, its seasons of seemingrepose, were precisely those which tended most to confirm his character.It is in solitude--in the long watches of a voyage at sea--in thosewatches more painful still, of a sick-bed, that we make up our accountwith ourselves, own to our short-comings, and sorrow over our faults.The mental culture that at such seasons we pursue, is equally certainto exercise a powerful influence on us. Out of the busy contest oflife--removed, for the moment, from its struggles and ambitions--thesoil of our hearts is, as it were, fresh turned, and rapidly maturesthe new-sown seed we throw upon it. How many date the habits ofconcentration, by which they have won success in after-life, to thethoughtful hours of a convalescence. It is not merely that isolationand quiet have aided their minds; there is much more in the fact that atsuch times the heart and the brain work together. Every appeal to reasonmust be confirmed by a judgment in the higher court of the affections,and out of our emotions as much as out of our convictions do we bendourselves to believe.
How fresh and invigorated do we come forth from these intervals ofpeace! less confident, it may be, of ourselves, but far more trustful ofothers--better pleased with life, and more sanguine of our fellow-men.And no matter how often we may be deceived or disappointed, no matterhow frequently our warmest affections have met no requital, let uscherish this hopeful spirit to the last--let us guard ourselves againstdoubting! There is no such bankruptcy of the heart as distrust.
Gerald was for weeks long a sufferer on a sick-bed. In a small room ofthe villa, kindly cared for, all his wants supplied by the directions ofhis wealthy friends, there he lay, pondering over the wayward accidentof his life, and insensibly feeding his heart with the conviction thatFate, which had never failed to befriend him in difficulty, had yet someworthy destiny in store for him. He read unceasingly, and of everything.The Marquise constantly sent him her books, and what now interested himno less, the newspapers and pamphlets of the time. It was the first realglimpse he had obtained of the actual world about him; and with avidityhe read of the ambitions and rivalries which disturbed Europe--thepretensions of this State, the fears and jealousies of that. Stored ashis mind was with poetic images, imbued with a rapturous love for theglowing pictures thus presented, he yet hesitated to decide whether thelife of action was not a higher and nobler ambition than the wondrousdreamland of imagination.
In the convent Gerald's mind had received its first lessons of religionand morality. His sojourn at the Tana had imparted his earliest advancesinto the world of knowledge through books, and now his captivity atthe 'Camerotto' opened to him a glance of the real world, its stirringscenes, its deep intrigues, and all the incidents of that stormy seaon which men charter the vessels of their hope. Was it that he forgotMarietta? Had pain and suffering effaced her image; had ambitionobliterated it? No; she was ever in his thoughts--the most beautiful andmost gifted creature he had ever seen. If he read, it was always withthe thought, what would she have said of it? If he sank into a reverie,she was the centre round which his dreams revolved. Her large, mildeyes, her glowing cheek, her full lips, tremulous with feeling, wereever before him; and what would he not have given to be her companionagain, wandering the world; blending all that was fascinating in poeticdescription with scenes wayward enough to have been conjured up byfancy! Why had they deserted him? he asked himself over and over. Hadthe passing dispute with Marietta determined her to meet him no more?And if so, what influence could she have exercised over the others toinduce them to take this step? There was but one of whom he could hopeto gain this knowledge--Alfieri himself, whose generosity had succouredthem, and in the few and brief moments of the poet's visit to the villahe had not courage to venture on the question.
The Marquise came frequently to see him, and seemed pleased to talkwith him, and lighten the hours of his solitude by engaging him inconversation. Dare he ask her? Could he presume to inquire, from oneso high-born and so great what had befallen his humble comrades of theroad? How entreat her to trace their steps, or to learn their plans? Hadshe, indeed, seen Marietta, there would have been no difficulty in theinquiry. Who could have beheld her without feeling an interest in herfate? Brief, however, as had been his intercourse with great people, hehad already marked the tone of indolent condescension with which theytreated the lives of the very poor. The pity they gave them cost noemotion: if they sorrowed, it was with a grief that had no pang. Theirvery generosity had more reference to their own sensations than to thefeelings of those they befriended. Already, young as he was, did hecatch a glimpse of that deep gulf that divides affluence from misery,and in the bitterness of his grief for her who had left him, heexaggerated the callousness of the rich and the sufferings of the poor.
Every comfort was supplied to him, all that care could bestow, orkindness remember, was around him; and yet, why was it his gratitudeflowed not in a pure, unsullied stream, but came with uncertain gushes,fitfully, unequally; now sluggish, now turbid; clogged with many a foulweed, eddying with many an uncertain current!
The poison Gabriel had instilled into his heart, if insufficient to killits nobler influences, was yet enough to render them unsound. The greatlesson of that tempter was to 'distrust,' never to accept a benefitin life without inquiring what subtle design had prompted it, whatdeep-laid scheme it might denote. 'None but a fool bestows withoutan object,' was a maxim he had often heard from his lips. Not all thegenerosity of the youth's nature--and it was a noble one--could lessenthe foul venom of this teaching! To reject it seemed like decrying thewisdom of one who knew life in all its aspects. How could he, a mereboy, ignorant, untravelled, unlettered, place his knowledge of mankindin competition with that of one so universally accomplished as Gabriel?His precepts, too, were uttered so calmly, so dispassionately--a toneof regret even softened them at times, as though he had far rather havespoken well and kindly of the world, if truth would have suffered him.And then he would insidiously add: 'Don't accept these opinions, but goout and test them for yourself. The laboratory is before you, experimentat your will.' As if he had not already put corruption in the crucible,and defiled the vessel wherein the ore should be assayed!
For some days Gerald had seen neither the Count nor the Marquise. Abrief note, a few lines, from the latter, once came to say that theycontinued to take an interest in his welfare, and hoped soon to see himable to move about and leave his room; but that the arrival of a youngrelative from Rome would probably prevent her being able to visit theCamerotto for some time.
'They have grown weary of the pleasure of benevolence,' thought Geraldpeevishly; 'they want some other and more rewarding excitement. Theseason of the Carnival is drawing nigh, and doubtless fetes and theatreswill be more gratifying resources than the patronage of such as I.'
It was in a spirit resentful and rebellious that he arose and dressedhimself. The very clothes he had to wear were given him--the stick heleaned on was an alms; and his indignation scoffed at his mendicancy, asthough it were a wrong against himself.
'After all,' said he mockingly, 'if it were not that I chanced toresemble some dear prince or other, they had left me to starve. I wonderwho my prototype may be: what would he say if I proposed to changecoats with him? Should I have more difficulty in performing the part ofprince, or he that of vagabond?'
In resentful reflections like this he showed how the seeds of Gabriel'steaching matured and ripened in his heart, darkening hope, stifling evengratitude. To impute to mere caprice, a passing whim, the benevolence ofthe rich was a favourite theory of Gabriel; and if, when Gerald listenedfirst to such maxims, they made little or no impression upon him, now,in the long silent hours of his solitude, they came up to agitate andexcite him. One startling illustration Gabriel had employed, that wouldoccur again and again to the boy's mind, in spite of himself.
'These benefactors,' said he, 'are like men who help a drowning swimmerto sustain himself a little longe
r: they never carry him to the shore.Their mission is not rescue, it is only to prolong a struggle, toprotract a fate.'
The snow lay on the Apennines, and even on the lower hills aroundFlorence, ere Gerald was sufficiently recovered to move about his room.The great dreary house, silent and tenantless, was a dominion over whichhe wandered at will, sitting hours long in contemplation of frescoedwalls and ceilings, richly carved architraves, and finely chiselledtraceries over door and window. Had they who reared such gloriousedifices left no heirs nor successors behind them? Why were suchsplendours left to rot and decay? Why were patches of damp and mildewsuffered to injure these marvellous designs? Why were the floorslittered with carved and golden fretwork? What new civilisationhad usurped the place of the old one, that men preferred lowlydwellings--tasteless, vulgar, and inconvenient--to those noble abodes,elegant and spacious 'Could it possibly be that the change in men'sminds, the growing assertion of equality, had tended to suppresswhatever too boldly indicated superiority of station? Alreadydistinctions of dress were fading away. The embroidered jabot, the richfalling ruffle, the ample peruke, and the slashed and braided coat, wereless and less often seen abroad. A simpler and more uniform taste incostume began to prevail, the insignia of rank were seldom paraded inpublic, and even the liveries of the rich displayed less of costlinessand show than in times past. Over and over had Gabriel directedthe youth's attention to these signs, saying, with his own sternsignificance--
'You will see, boy, that men will not any longer wait for equality tillthe churchyard.'
Was the struggle, then, really approaching?--were the real armies,indeed, marshalling their forces for the fight? And if so, with whichshould he claim brotherhood? His birth and blood inclined him to thenoble, but his want and destitution gave him common cause with themiserable.
It was a dreary day of December, a low, leaden sky, heavily chargedwith rain or snow, stretched over a landscape inexpressibly sad andwretched-looking. The very character of Italian husbandry is one to addgreatly to the rueful aspect of a day in winter: dreary fields ofmaize left to rot on the tall stalks; scrubby olive-trees, in allthe deformity of their leafless existence; straggling vine branches,stretching from tree to tree, or hanging carelessly about--all thesedamp and dripping, in a scene desolate as a desert, with no inhabitants,and no cattle to be seen.
Such was the landscape that Gerald gazed on from a window, and, wearywith reading now, stood long to contemplate.
'How little great folk care for those seasons of gloom!' thought he.'Their indoor life has its thousand resources of luxury and enjoyment:their palaces stored with every appliance of comfort for them--pictures,books, music--all that can charm in converse, all that can elevate bytaste about them. What do they know of the trials of those who plodheavily along through mire and rain, weary, footsore, and famishing?'And Marietta rose to his mind, and he pictured her toiling drearilyalong, her dress draggled, her garments dripping. He thought he couldmark how her proud look seemed to fire with indignation at an unworthyfate, and that a feverish spot on her cheek glowed passionately at theslavery she suffered. 'And why am I not there to share with her thesehardships?' cried he aloud. 'Is not this a coward's part in me to sithere in indolence, and worse again, in mere dependence? I am able totravel: I can, at least, crawl along a few miles a day; strength willcome by the effort to regain it. I will seek her through the wideworld till I find her. In her companionship alone has my heart ever metresponse, and my nature been understood.'
A low, soft laugh interrupted these words. He turned, and it was theAbbe Girardon, a friend of the Marquise de Bauffremont's, who alwaysaccompanied her, and acted as a sort of secretary in her household.There was a certain half-mocking subtlety, a sort of fine raillery inthe manner of the polished Abbe which Gerald always hated; and neverwas he less in the humour to enjoy the society of one whom even friendscalled 'malin.'
'I believed I was alone, sir,' said Gerald, half haughtily, as the othercontinued to show his whole teeth in ridicule of the youth's speech.
'It was chance gave me the honour of overhearing you,' replied the Abbe,smiling. 'I opened this door by mere accident, and without expecting tofind you here.'
Gerald's cheek grew crimson. The exceeding courtesy of the other'smanner seemed to him a studied impertinence, and he stared steadfastlyat him, without knowing how to reply.
'And yet,' resumed the Abbe, 'it was in search of you I came out fromFlorence this dreary day. I had no other object, I assure you.'
'Too much honour, Monsieur,' said Gerald, with a haughty bend of thehead; for the raillery, as he deemed it, was becoming insupportable.
'Not but the tidings I bear would reward me for even a rougher journey,'said the Abbe courteously. 'You are aware of the deep interest theMarquise de Bauffremont has ever taken in your fortunes. To her care andkindness you owe, indeed, all the attentions your long illness stood inneed of. Well, her only difficulty in obtaining a career for you washer inability to learn to what rank in life to ascribe you. You believedyourself noble, and she was most willing to accept the belief. Now, amere accident has tended to confirm this assumption.'
'Let me hear what you call this accident, Monsieur l'Abbe,' broke inGerald anxiously.
'It was an observation made yesterday at dinner by Sir Horace Mann.In speaking of the Geraldines, and addressing Count Gherardini forconfirmation, he said: "The earldom of Desmond, which is held by abranch of the family, is yet the youngest title of the house." And theCount answered quickly: "Your Excellency is right; we date from a longtime back. There 's an insolent proverb in our house that says, '_Meglioun Gherardini bastardo che un Corsini ben nato_.'" Madame de Bauffremontcaught at the phrase, and made him repeat it. In a word, Monsieur, shewas but too happy to avail herself of what aided a foregone conclusion.She wished you to be noble, and you were so.'
'But I am noble!' cried Gerald boldly. 'I want no hazards like theseto establish my station. Let them inquire how I am enrolled in thecollege.'
'Of what college do you speak?' asked the Abbe quickly.
'It matters not,' stammered out Gerald, in confusion at thus havingbetrayed himself into a reference to his past. 'None have the right toquestion me on these things.'
'A student enrolled with his due title,' suggested the wily Abbe,'would at once stand independent of all generous interpretation.'
'You will learn no more from _me_, Monsieur l'Abbe,' said the youthdisdainfully. 'I shall not seek to prove a rank from which I ask toderive no advantage. They called me t'other day, at the tribunal, a"vagabond": that is the only title the law of Tuscany gives me.'
The Abbe, with a tact skilled to overcome far greater difficulties,strove to allay the youth's irritation, and smooth down the asperitywhich recent illness, as well as temperament, excited, and at lastsucceeded so far that Gerald seated himself at his side, and listenedcalmly to the plan which the Marquise had formed for his future life. Atsome length, and with a degree of address that deprived the subjectof anything that could alarm the jealous susceptibility of the boy'snature, the Abbe related that a custom prevailed in certain great houses(whose alliances with royalty favoured the privilege) of attaching totheir household young cadets of noble families, who served in a capacitysimilar to that of courtier to the person of the king. They were'gentlemen of the presence,' pages or equerries, as their age orpretensions decided; and, in fact, from the followers of such housesas the De Rohan, the Noailles, the Tavannes, and the Bauffre-mont, didroyalty itself recruit its personal attendants. Monsieur de Girardon wastoo shrewd a reader of character not to perceive that any descriptionof the splendours and fascinations of a life of voluptuous ease wouldbe less captivating to such a youth than a picture of a career full ofincident and adventure, and so he dwelt almost exclusively on all thatsuch a career could offer of high ambition, the army being chieflyofficered by the private influence of the great families of France.
'You will thus,' said he, at the close of a clever description; 'youwill thus, at the very threshold of life
, enjoy what the luckiest rarelyattain till later on--the choice of what road you will take. If thesplendour of a court life attract you, you can be a courtier; if theambitions of statesmanship engross your mind, you are sure of office; ifyou aspire to military glory, here is your shortest road to it; or if,'said he, with a graceful melancholy, 'you can submit yourself to be amere guest at the banquet of life, and never a host--one whose placeat the table is assigned him, not taken by right--such, in a word, asI am--why, then, the Abbe's frock is an easy dress, and a safe passportbesides.'
With a sort of unintentional carelessness, that seemed frankness itself,the Abbe glided into a little narrative of his own early life, and how,with a wide choice of a career before him, he had, half in indolence,half in self-indulgence, adopted the gown.
'Stern thinkers call men like me mere idlers in the vineyard, dronesin the great human hive: but we are not; we have our uses just as everyother luxury. We are to society what the bouquet is to the desert; ourinfluence on mankind is not the less real, that its exercise attractslittle notice.'
'And what am I to be, what to do?' asked Gerald proudly.
'Imagine the Marquise de Bauffremont to be Royalty, and you area courtier; you are of her household, in attendance on her greatreceptions; you accompany her on visits of ceremony--your rank securingyou all the deference that is accorded to birth, and admission to thefirst circles in Paris.'
'Is not this service menial?' asked he quickly.
'It is not thus the world regards it. The Melcours, the Frontignards,the Montrouilles are to be found at this moment in these ranks.'
'But they are recognised by these very names,' cried Gerald; 'but whoknows _me_, or what title do _I_ bear?'
'You will be the Chevalier de Fitzgerald; the Marquise has influenceenough at court to have the title confirmed. Believe me,' added he,smiling blandly, 'everything has been provided for--all forethoughttaken already.'
'But shall I be free to abandon this--servitude' (the word would out,though he hesitated to utter it)--'if I find it onerous or unpleasant?Am I under no obligation or pledge?'
'None; you are the arbiter of your own fortune at any moment you wish.'
'You smile, sir, and naturally enough, that one poor and friendless asI am should make such conditions; but remember, my liberty is all mywealth--so long as I have that, so long am I master of myself: free tocome and go, I am not lost to self-esteem. I accept,' and so saying, hegave his hand to the Abbe, who pressed it cordially, in ratification ofthe compact.
'You will return with me to Florence, Monsieur le Chevalier,' said theAbbe, rising, and assuming a degree of courteous respect which Gerald atonce saw was to be his right for the future.
BOOK THE SECOND
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 19